


Winner, Winner, Gets a Stripper

by horchatita394, weathervaanes, wishingonalightningbolt



Series: House of Gold [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bottom Derek, M/M, Smut, Stripping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 04:22:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4333718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horchatita394/pseuds/horchatita394, https://archiveofourown.org/users/weathervaanes/pseuds/weathervaanes, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wishingonalightningbolt/pseuds/wishingonalightningbolt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While on tour, Side A/Side B stops in Las Vegas for a couple performances and to celebrate the New Year. Derek and Stiles play slots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winner, Winner, Gets a Stripper

**Author's Note:**

> This is obviously a companion piece to House of Gold, but if you want to read this without that, here are a few things you need to know:
> 
> Stiles and Derek have been screwing around while on tour, both of them thinking the other is only looking for something casual. This is the last night they spend together before the tour is over.

It’s not hard for Derek to go places unrecognized. He looks pretty normal, all things considered, and most people prefer the ladies of the group, as opposed to him. Boyd gets attention because he’s the bassist. Isaac is noticed because he’s the lead guitarist. Derek—is the drummer, and so he sits in the background and doesn’t do much to be seen. It’s the way he likes it.

That makes it easy, then, to go onto crowded Las Vegas floors and play slots until his wrists give out. It’s even easier when accompanied by Stiles, because Derek doesn’t give two shits about the rest of the world when he’s with Stiles.

“Slots are not my game,” Stiles protest, sitting at the machine with Derek behind him, hands on his shoulders. “At Berkeley, I counted cards on the weekends. It’s how I made most of my rent money.”

“We can play Blackack after,” Derek says. “I have a good feeling about this.”

Stiles snorts. “How very Vegas of you.” He tilts his head up, looking at Derek upside down. “What do I get if I win?”

“You mean besides money?”

“I _mean_ ,” he says slowly, “bedroom rewards.”

“Depends on how much you win.” Derek grabs his head and sets it right. “Go on; pull the lever.”

They lose nearly twenty dollars to the machine before Stiles wants to quit. He’s fussy, upset because the rest of the band is playing craps and he’s bored. Derek almost wants to let him go, but—but it’s the second to last night of the tour. After this, there’s going to be San Francisco, and then they’re done. And Derek doesn’t want to let him go yet.

“C’mon,” Derek pushes. “I feel like we’re close to a win. We should at least try to break even.”

Stiles huffs. “Fine. But we’re gonna quote-unquote _win_ twenty dollars and I’m gonna use it to buy burgers.”

“As you should.” Derek squeezes his shoulders. “Go for it.”

He’s as surprised as anyone when the machine starts flashing and quarters start pouring out. They grab empty buckets as quick as they can, and are grinning like maniacs at each other, Googling to find the nearest Coinstar. They even hold hands as they run through the cold down the strip; Derek is too excited to care about camera phones, and when they finally reach the twenty-four hour convenience store on the corner of the block, he crowds Stiles against the machine, muttering praise absently into his neck as their quarters are counted.

“You’re ridiculous,” Stiles laughs, but doesn’t push him away. “Let’s go buy something. Let’s go buy really stupid hats for everybody to wear on stage tomorrow night. Oh, I could buy a new guitar! I mean, not that I really need one—”

“You can buy whatever you want,” Derek tells him, kissing the back of his head.

Stiles hums. “How about room service?”

“I could get behind that idea.”

They get hundred-dollar bills in exchange for the quarters—five of them, to be exact—and they may or may not practically sprint back to the hotel. Derek is already hurrying towards the elevator, but Stiles pulls him back, heads to the front desk.

“Hi,” he says sweetly to the girl behind the counter, “I was wondering if you might have change for hundreds?”

“Of course,” she says, because this is Vegas and, honestly, Derek should’ve expected. “What kind of bills would you like?”

“Tens,” he says. “Thanks.”

Once inside the hotel room, Stiles drops the bills on the bedside table just in time for Derek to grab him, kiss him deeply and thoroughly, already unbuttoning his jeans.

“Whoa,” Stiles laughs, “hold on.”

Derek can feel his own face drop, tries to set it back somewhere around apathetic, but not before Stiles notices. He winds his arms around Derek’s shoulders, still smiling softly.

“Don’t get moody. I have an idea,” he says. “And it involves you keeping your clothes on for a second. You can take off your shoes, though.”

Arching an eyebrow, Derek backs off and does as he’s told, tossing his socks over to his suitcase.

Stiles nods approvingly. “Now.” He grabs the bills with one hand and Derek’s wrist with the other, tugging him to the end of the bed, where Stiles proceeds to sit with his knees spread. “I won five-hundred dollars for us. And I think that’s deserving of a little appreciation.”

“You want me to blow you?”

Stiles shrugs. “Later, sure. First, though.” He grins. “I want you to strip for me.”

Derek frowns. “What?”

“Strip,” Stiles repeats, popping the “p” at the end of the word. “You know, dance erotically to sexy music while taking your clothes off.”

“There’s no music.”

Stiles digs into his pocket, producing his phone. “I can change that.” Sure enough, within moments the sounds coming from Stiles’ phone definitely sound like the inside of a strip joint. Sleazy but a little bit sexy, slow bass line. And even though Derek thinks it’s ridiculous, he can feel his dick hardening in his jeans at the simple mention of it.

He licks his lips. “Is this some kind of fantasy?”

“I don’t like strip clubs,” Stiles says. “They’re all fake and I just get sad anyway. I like _you_.” He punctuates this by tucking a ten-dollar bill into the waistband of Derek’s jeans. “You don’t have a lot of clothes. Three items, actually, so it won’t last very long. All I’m asking is for a little booty shake, maybe grind on me a little.”

“You’ve thought this through.”

“I really wanna see you take your clothes off for me,” Stiles says, eyes wide, and Derek knows he has to do it.

He can never say no to Stiles.

He’s not good at this type of dancing. He was in cotillion as a kid, knew how to do all the fancy dances, but this—this hip hop type thing is foreign to him, and he worries he’s not gonna do it right.

To try to distract from this, he gets as close to Stiles as he can, fitting between his thighs, and kisses him, deep and dirty. Stiles moans into his mouth, hips arching. When Derek pulls back, Stiles’ eyes are half-lidded, his mouth red and wet from Derek’s. He’s beautiful.

He’s wearing a long-sleeve sweater because it’s January in Las Vegas and it’s like thirty degrees outside. He pulls up the hem, swinging his hips to the slow beat of the song, lets Stiles stare all he wants at his abs before he pulls it off entirely, using the sleeves to swing it around Stiles’ neck.

Another bill gets tucked into his waistband. Derek laughs, unable to help himself, and kisses down Stiles’ jaw. “Twenty bucks?” he asks. “For all this _hard_ work?” He grabs Stiles’ hand, places it right where he’s hard and pulsing in his jeans, unfathomably into the idea of Stiles watching him get naked.

Stiles moans weakly, tilting his mouth up for a kiss, which Derek gives him. It’s quick, though, and shallow. Chaste, even. The perfect juxtaposition to everything else he’s doing.

Another bill, but this time Stiles’ fingers linger, dragging along his waistline.

“I’m gonna buy you tear-away pants,” Stiles tells him. “Holy shit, dude. Turn around, lemme objectify your ass.”

Derek’s stomach tightens just the slightest bit, but he has to remember—that’s what this is. Mutual objectification and orgasms. They’re not in love. Stiles isn’t in love with him. But, maybe, Derek thinks, this is better. Because they’re friends now, friends who have really good sex, and if television has taught him anything, it’s that Stiles will grow to love him.

He kisses Stiles again, licking playfully into his mouth, and turns, still moving his hips to the song. He can feel it when Stiles tips his forehead against the small of Derek’s back, hands coming up to grab his ass.

Another bill joins the party, and one of Stiles’ hands disappears. Derek doesn’t worry about it, just keeps moving as best he knows how, but when he hears the telltale click of a camera, he turns, heart in his throat. Stiles has his phone in hand, snapping pictures.

“You can’t post those,” Derek says stiffly.

“As if I would dare,” Stiles tells him. “I don’t even store stuff to the Cloud. Besides, your face isn’t in them.”

Derek doesn’t move. When Stiles looks up at him, his smile is gone.

“Sorry,” Stiles says, setting his phone down again. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have—I’ll delete them.”

Derek licks his lips. “You don’t have to. Just—no more pictures right now. You’re distracting from the show.”

The smile that reappears on Stiles’ mouth makes the uncomfortable words so worth it. And Derek doesn’t waste a second before turning his back, undoing his jeans, and hooking his thumbs over the waistband, dragging them down as slowly as he possibly can.

“You’re killing me,” Stiles decides, snapping the band of Derek’s boxer briefs. “Fuck. I wanna eat you out until you’re crying, dude. Just—take all my money, holy shit.”

When his jeans are gone, Derek is in more familiar territory. He straddles Stiles easily, one hand on his neck, the other moving down his own chest, stomach, until he can slide it into his underwear, taking hold of his cock.

Stiles whimpers. His hands are firmly at his sides, resting on the bed, and Derek hums, leaning forward to lick across the hollow of his collarbone.

“A little overwhelmed?” Derek asks, nipping at his skin.

“This is easily the hottest thing that has ever happened to me. Please let me fuck you.”

Derek pretends like he’s considering saying no, turning in Stiles’ lap so he’s standing again, grinding his ass into Stiles’ crotch. He’s hard, unsurprisingly, and Derek lets his head fall back against Stiles’ shoulder, his hands poised to remove the boxer briefs.

“You can be Nicki Minaj, dude,” Stiles whimpers. “I’ll eat your ass like a cupcake and everything.”

“You’re really focused on that, huh?”

Stiles groans as Derek grinds against him, breath hot against Derek’s throat. “You let me do it when we were in Australia. You came so hard you blacked out. I like making you feel good, so sue me.”

It’s true. They had a couple days of nothing to do in Sydney and when they weren’t sightseeing as a group, they were fucking. After one long morning of hiking, Derek had showered and fallen asleep in his hotel room bed, and Stiles had woke him up by tongue fucking him into another dimension.

“You’re so pretty when you have my tongue in your ass.”

Derek licks his lips. “You really like it.”

“I like the noises you make. I like the way you can’t stop moving. I like the way you said my name when you came.” Stiles kisses the skin closest to his mouth, which happens to be just behind Derek’s ear. “I want to make you feel that good all the time.”

Derek stands, kicking off his underwear, and Stiles responds by flicking bill after bill at him, grinning hugely.

“I’m making it rain, Der.”

“Yeah,” Derek says dismissively, and knocks the money out of Stiles’ hand, tackling him to the bed. “Your turn to get undressed.”

“Oh ho ho, just watch me.”

“I plan on it.”

* * *

Derek is already one orgasm in when he finally sinks down onto Stiles’ cock. True to his word, Stiles has spent the last fifteen minutes eating Derek out, sloppy and desperate, like he was starving for it. Derek doesn’t remember exact details—he’s so fucking blissed out right now that he can barely keep his eyes open—but he recalls that he came on a bunch of ten-dollar bills and that his elbows had given out on him way too easily.

Now, Stiles is lying flat on his back, hands on Derek’s thighs as Derek rides him. Stiles has always felt amazing inside of him, ever since the first time in fucking Springfield, when Stiles had fucked him missionary position, sweet and slow and careful. It had been—breathtaking. It had been unforgettable.

Derek has a feeling this night is going to be unforgettable too.

“Shit,” Stiles says, throwing his head back against the pillows. “Holy fuck, Derek.”

In this position, Derek can use Stiles’ cock any way he wants. With his palms on Stiles’ chest, body forward, he can grind the head of Stiles’ cock into his prostate over and over again, doing nothing but arching and groaning, taking his pleasure until Stiles forces his hips up, sinking all the way inside of him.

Stiles moans, fingers digging into Derek’s thighs hard enough to leave bruises. Derek hopes his skin turns purple in ten perfect points, hopes that he can still see it in a week, when they’re back in Los Angeles.

“Yeah,” Derek says distractedly, lifting and dropping his hips in time to Stiles’ thrusts. “Yeah, fuck me.”

“You’re gonna make me come if you say shit like that,” Stiles whines.

“Fuck me,” Derek says again. “Want you to fuck me until I can’t walk.”

The noise Stiles makes is barely human. “Are you trying to make me lose it?”

Derek is trying to come up with a witty retort when Stiles wraps his hand around his cock, tugging lazily, barely to the rhythm they’ve established with their hips. It’s more than a little distracting, and instead of saying words, he only moans weakly, letting his body shudder with sensation.

“That’s what I thought,” Stiles is saying distantly. “I know how to fuck my man. Look at you, can’t even speak. I’m fucking the words out of you.”

“Stiles—”

“Yeah, fucking—say my name when you come. No one else is making you come like this, huh, Der? Coming so fucking hard—”

Derek feels like crying, he’s so close. He’s filled with a surge of affection, eyes blinking open to watch Stiles’ face, his honey-and-whiskey eyes, his pink, perfect mouth. He’s beautiful, and Derek is so in love with him.

His orgasm surprises him, swells from his belly and crashes over him. He catches himself on his hands, holding him up on either side of Stiles’ torso, gripping the sheets desperately. His breathing is labored, his balls ache, and he feels like taking the world’s longest nap.

“S-sorry,” Stiles stutters, hips still rolling, and Derek has to hold his breath, watching—and feeling—and Stiles thrusts twice more before he comes, face twisting in pleasure and hands grabbing randomly towards Derek’s arms.

Derek moves off of him carefully and disposes of the condom. He would grab a washcloth from the bathroom to clean off Stiles’ come-splattered chest, but his legs don’t work yet, so he simply drops down to Stiles’ side and breathes, deep and slow.

“I should’ve pulled out,” Stiles says quietly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—hurt you or—”

“You didn’t,” Derek interrupts. “It was fine. It was hot.” He watches as Stiles looks down at his chest, laughs at the mess he sees. “Are you hungry?”

“I could eat a horse, probably.”

Derek smiles into the pillow. “Shower, then room service.”

“We should probably clean up the money too,” Stiles reminds him.

“I’ll be sure not to tip the guy with the bills that have been anywhere near my dick.”

“Good. Those are all mine.”

**Author's Note:**

> Another companion piece coming up soon! Peter/Chris and the way the band gets started!


End file.
